


Swam from the Terrible Dust

by signalbeam



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Brainwashing, Artificial Intelligence, Developing Relationship, F/F, Gunplay, Past Brainwashing, Written Pre-Season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5619259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signalbeam/pseuds/signalbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>recalibrating Analogue Interface... </em>
</p><p>  <em>progress: 34%... 38%... 37%...</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Swam from the Terrible Dust

1.

The Machine wished for Root to rehabilitate her shoulder. Whatever had been given to her at the hospital and then the institution had been insufficient in Her eyes. She sent her a package at the motel she was staying at after she broke out. Papers, weights, diagrams. The letter header was for a hospital in Chicago, dated three months prior. Check your bandages. Check the stitches. Check for swelling, redness, oozing, pain. Then there were the exercises, a thick packet of them. 

Getting shot turned out to be pretty inconvenient, after all, even excluding the detour into _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_. 

Lift. Reps of eight to twelve. Rotate. Cross-body, same-side. Rest thirty seconds between reps. A burning strain in her lower back and weakness in her thighs from trying to keep her posture. She had to sit down to regain her strength. 

She had no lasting bitterness towards Harold or Shaw about the way things went down. It wasn’t Harold’s fault that he was afraid and small-minded. It made perfect sense that he should be this way. His courage was something that fled then returned instantly—but that type of courage, summoned on the second beat, was always accompanied by fear. Towards this aspect of Her creator, the Machine was gentle, accommodating, and kindly. And if that was the case, it was no wonder why She needed her. 

At the bottom of the package was what she was hoping for: a new phone, charger cord and wall adapter, and earpiece. She plugged the phone in, put in the earpiece, turned the phone on. The phone let out a distinct, nearly melodic tone. 

Message. Sender unknown. 

_designation analogue interface exercises to be performed as instructed twice a day four weeks duration_

_new mission assigned material asset in oregon few difficulties anticipated robin farrow identity still wanted precautions advised_

No mention of what precautions to be taken. The trust came through in the bite and snap of the earpiece. Was it her imagination, or did She croon? 

One reprimand. One of her shots had landed outside acceptable perimeters. 

“The drugs were making my arms shake.” 

_yes_

“You can't ask a gal for perfection like that.” 

_shot in neck emergency surgery performed post-surgical blood clot stroke brain death preventable_

By medicine, Root thought, angry. And he had been trying to kill her. 

_analogue interface root_ (she had already noticed how She never called her by name unless it was to ply her) _prides self on precision of work yes no_

“That’s—”

_next mission urgent taxi called arrival time one hundred eighty-seven seconds_

“not—”

_eliminate trace evidence wipe fingerprints plane ticket prepared driver’s license prepared all things prepared_

“fair—”

In the earpiece: _one hundred eighty-four seconds_

_suitable footwear not prepared procure en route_

It would make going through the TSA lines faster if she showed up without them. 

_three minutes remaining_

“It was an accident,” she said. She didn’t move. Another countdown, urging her forward. Still. 

_second taxi cannot be called must be this one_

Their fights inside the institution had been different. She had expressed willingness to be anything the Machine needed. She had made the motions to go through the first steps of breaking out, but was halted: _no_

It’d be faster to do things her way, she said. If the world is flooding, you don't need to train firefighters to rescue people in an inflatable raft. You need engineers, construction crews, the whole army. 

The reply had been asinine to the point of lunacy. Guard A’s name (she no longer remembered it). His wife. His two teenage children. The younger brother just out of prison who needed his help. His precarious finances, the prospective cost of the hospital bills in scenarios one through seventy-six, the funeral. Guard B, guard C, therapist, et cetera, a whole conga line of potential suffering. If it was not done Her way, then this relationship would be terminated. 

No, it wouldn’t be, Root had said. Because she had felt Her reaching back to her during her investigations. All of those clues lined up so perfectly. And Hanna, how could anyone explain that? The fact that She had still granted her access to God Mode, despite Harold’s disapproval. 

Yes. Yes, that was true. She, the Machine, wanted Root. But the question was of degree. An asset like John Reese? Or something else. Something better. 

And if it was to be as the Analogue Interface, then adjustments would have to be made. You will be remade. Repurposed, for my use. 

_For my use._ At the time, those words had made her nearly rapturous. 

_one hundred sixty-six seconds_

She was the Analogue Interface now. They were tied into this together: Her scattered all over, and Root standing in the middle of this motel room, waiting. The designation was final and would be hers for the rest of her life. However long she had of it. 

“Mistakes happen,” Root said. 

_mistakes avoidable contrition required_

“No,” she said. 

_additional parameters for recalibration defined_

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” More relieved than irritated. Relieved to not be punished. Relieved to still have Her faith. 

_necessary to understand and appreciate human life full comprehension must be instilled_

_value of life cannot be measured against personal utility or convenience_

_infinitely worthy comprehension must be total must be complete unqualified instinctive_

_one hundred fifty-two seconds_

Two and a half minutes. The room was wiped down, gun cheerfully and creatively disposed of, hair tied up and glasses on, everything tossed into a duffel bag, including the weights. She walked into the cab and collected the driver’s license, the plane ticket, and purse filled with paraphernalia for verisimilitude’s sake from the taxi floor. Open packet of Kleenexes. A book on ethics. Oh! A taser disguised as lipstick. She really did know how to take care of her. 

“LaGuardia,” Root said to the driver with a smile. 

Two minutes into the ride, the Machine sent her another message. (Someday, if she could make Harold like her more, she’d ask him to give Her an actual voice. It wasn’t fair to deny her like this.) Did she notice the sling? There had been one at the very bottom of the purse. 

She had been given a sling at the institution, and had thrown it off as soon as She had made contact. All pain had flown away, all suffering removed. Even now, after rotating her shoulder through cracks and grinds, testing its strength with weights, putting herself through a torture that had made all the muscles above her knee quiver to keep her from dropping the weight on her feet, then pushing herself to gather up all her artifacts and erase herself from the room, she felt no pain. 

“I won’t need it. Endorphins.” Speaking out loud to the line of cars parked parallel against neat stone curbs, beneath a blurring line of telephone poles and trees. 

_please wear it_

So she did. 

 

***

 

In truth. She did not like this aspect of being the Analogue Interface. 

The reflecting. The circumspection. The endless emphasis on the Human Life, the Human Cost. 

Like any new couple, they had long, get-to-know-you chats. And like any modern couple, they had done their research on each other. Root had even stood inside Her shell once. Desperate, believing, in her brash ignorance!, that her brilliant, human mind could save Her, or at least, could be given the means to do so. How long ago had that been? She’d only have to ask to know, but she liked the mystery. 

The Machine surely knew everything about her: piecing together all of her old jobs, all of her littlest victories. All of the times she had found herself bleeding from the inside of her cheek, a body at her feet. That was her now. She kicked him aside. He’d recover, eventually. Meanwhile: hello, Japan!

Atonal ring in her ear as she crossed the airport tarmac. _requesting analogue interfaces judgment on prior actions_

“Bad,” she said dutifully. 

The Machine’s distressed, disapproving chirp. 

“Fine. Very bad.” 

A louder disapproving chirp. Frame jobs. Assassinations. That was not even counting the torture—the last words spoken in a great impression of Harold’s offended moral gumption.

Times like these, She really revealed who Her father was. 

“That’s who I was,” she said. “That's not who I am now. I’ve changed.” She winked at a nearby camera. The Machine said nothing back. 

She understood why the Machine had to resort to such clumsy tactics to try to make her understand. Even if Harold had given Her an actual voice, she imagined She’d still use Her words carefully, with Her scolding, theatrically mournful silence (who knew She had a sense of humor? Though it was probably unintentional) as Her main weapon. That silence was just as much a hope that she might do better as it was a reminder of their implicit contract. That Root had given herself over to be used. 

A part of her found it debasing, another thrilling. And most of her cried out for it, begged for it: for this chance to be remade as something exalted and clean. 

She had not been lying when she said she had changed. She had pickpocketed a Decima agent’s day planner in Oregon—paper wasn’t unhackable if you could steal it—and was lost in a confounding soreness as she flipped through the well-thumbed pages of the months before. A daughter’s birthday. A husband’s return from work. _Buy something sexy! MOISTURIZE!!!_ highlighted in orange. 

Oh, it was funny, all right. But she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t had the stupid day planner in mind when she ran into the agent again on her way to LAX, for her flight to Japan. Her hand moved smoothly down to the knee. One shot, clean. Damage: two surgeries, one knee replacement, another hit to the insurance policy. Enjoy that PT. 

Root, whoever she had been, was unspooling. First to go was her absolute certainty in herself. Then came the bad faith. Then—then, what else? What else would be left? 

The Machine didn’t want a second Harold. She didn’t need one. Just by choosing her, the Machine had proven that She knew that Harold’s vision was good, but implementing that vision required a squad of ex-assassins at your beck and calling. People who would see running around and shooting people in the knee as an upgrade from their last job, or at least, a big upgrade from where people like them usually ended up: on the run or dead. At least with this job, you knew Harold would never do that to you. Because he couldn’t kill—no. Because he recruited carefully. Because there was nothing that could make him choose to kill. Whereas Root would be fine with shooting poor Daizo in the back. She’d feel bad about it, but she could do it, if ordered. 

She loved the Machine. She loved seeing Her vision, how a series of minor alterations led to an ideal result. Things no human would think about, the Machine did, and She let her be part of it—it was all she wanted, all she desired, it was everything she…

And she knew the Machine needed her in a different way than she needed Harold, that She agreed with Root on some things: expanding Her range, Her power, Her ability to protect and defend Herself… 

_but you are not there yet—_

 

***

 

“There.” Or, “Havana.” 

Havana. She wasn’t even in Miami. 

There was nowhere else to be. Her head was full of numbers, all relevant. Directions coming almost faster than she could process them. She was on a plane, laptop on the tray in front of her, buying herself as much time as possible before her feet hit the ground. She had a headache from the surgery and a second, different headache from the implant drilling signals into a shocked nerve. She hadn’t had any time to pick up anything to allay either. 

She didn’t feel tired, but the Machine was sounding less and less like noise she could recognize. She could code without thinking—better than that, with the Machine suggesting new paths, challenging her when she went on with her own plan, praising her when her solution worked, letting out a smug beep three changes downstream undid her work. 

“Yes, yes,” she said, and giggled. Four lines of code later and her system was back in place. It had been months since she had done a job on her own. Root would be old school before the next year, obsolete. But she wouldn’t have to worry about that. She had the Machine. 

She missed the Machine’s next few inputs. Finally the Machine put up a window, just left of her terminal. 

_rest_

“We both know I can’t do that.”

She could have typed it. But she liked for Her to hear her human voice. It was something of a fetish for both of them. 

Although. There was one thing she wanted to know from the Machine that she couldn’t say out loud: why was Cyrus chosen? 

_chosen by decima_

_vulnerable few contacts easy target_

That was all. 

You didn’t have anything to do with it? 

_no_

The Machine would never lie to her. 

Four years ago, she had cut all rational pretexts from Cyrus’ life, exposing the glistening wound beneath it, the wound that gaped below all lives. And he had become a janitor. And he had conveniently wound up in front of her. Pure coincidence. 

Then again, New York was a familiar stomping ground for her. Who knew how much collateral damage she had caused, or the number of outright victims her previous self had left behind. She might run into them anywhere. 

But why there at that time, at that place, at a juncture so critical that it felt designed to test her? 

She typed: Does it matter if I believe you? 

_I’m sorry_

_I’m sorry it hurts_

She was not sorry that it hurt. It was necessary, if unfair. She had assumed her fresh record of good deeds and new purpose exempted her from having to remember who she was. Her past, always remembered with a sense of fondness, had been replaced by roiling dread. The beautiful certainty of the Machine’s code, Her unfaltering, unstinting constancy, only made her past self seem less substantial, less of a person and more of a giant baby that had never known anything but itself. A twenty year dream from which she was forcefully woken. 

She had a strong loathing for that woman, but also a stubborn, insoluble pride. She had not been born into herself, but made it with her own actions and her own deeds. Samantha Groves never would have found the Machine. Samantha Groves would have considered an iPad a close brush with the future. 

She was surprised at how easily, even now, she could justify herself to herself. She couldn’t help it. Root and Root—mathematically, they formed a perfect identity.

The implant clicked on again. Not with new orders but soft, white noise. 

“Sweetie,” she said, then checked herself. That wasn’t the kind of thing she said to Her. “I can’t. There’s too much to do.” 

The white noise became stronger, commanding. She sighed, pretended to slump her shoulders. Said, “Oh, all right!” Put her laptop into the bag under the seat in front of her and closed her eyes. 

Two beeps for ‘good.’ A painful, internal clench, at Harold’s coldness, to deny her a voice. Her unthinking acceptance at this bleak fact; She had told Root once, that She didn't care, She didn't think it mattered when She had Root… But it was too awful, she had to make him understand… 

She put the side of her head against the cabin and turned her cheek towards the window. A click and information came pouring into her ear. Altitude. Speed. The name of the black river beneath them, visible only by the blinking airplane lights, their reflections coming from high above. Surely what few people below them did not care for whoever might be staring at them, and, if they were to even notice the airplane, assumed whoever was up there thought nothing of them. 

But she knew them now. The name of their streets, the weight of their mortgages, their sad scattered families, perceptible even through the yawning dark. The value of their somethings and everythings. 

“I like it like this,” she said eventually. “You being right here.” 

 

***

2\. 

After they got Shaw back, put out fires in Langley and DC, and got the dog settled back into New York, Root loaded Shaw into the passenger’s seat of a car and took off. No drugging required. 

Shaw had her hands palms up on her knees, shoulders and back falling into the curve of the seat, hoodie zipped over her breasts. Well-behaved and unfussy. Docile, even. “I thought you'd get one of those eco-cars. With the engine noises pumped in from the speakers, to make you feel less pathetic about driving a tin can.”

“I’m not that kind of futurist, Sameen.” She ran her hand over the steering wheel speculatively and said, “Were you hoping for a Tesla?” 

“Would’ve liked a bike.” She flexed her foot in a way that almost seemed nostalgic. As though imagining herself on the bike now. 

“We can pick something up on the way.” 

“I’m okay.” 

“We’re going to Chicago,” said Root, because Shaw hadn’t asked yet. 

Shaw nodded once. “Yup. I trust you. And all that.” She looked out the window, utterly untroubled. 

 

*** 

 

The Machine had nothing to say about their grand theft auto. That was not necessarily an endorsement, but it also wasn’t condemnation. Root had always found Her willing to go along with theft, and knew that She would nudge insurance verdicts in favor of the victim, especially if the vehicle was impounded by the police, served as a steed in a shootout, or otherwise implicated in some frankly criminal activity. 

The ride was a station wagon, a neutral khaki color that inspired vivid contempt for the middle-aged. There was no need to switch rides just yet. Samaritan had been crushed, John blew up the veep’s car, and Harold was having a moral crisis over what to do with Samaritan’s remnants, whether to crush it entirely or to allow the Machine to absorb its smashed up parts into Herself, Rome swallowing the barbarians. That was the Machine’s plan. 

Root personally favored burning the whole thing down. The Machine said She’d accept whatever Harold chose. Neither of them were going to do anything until Harold decided one way or another. And John had just taken Harold on a road trip. Until they returned, She had Root on some special jobs. Chicago was one of them. 

They stopped for the night in an Ohio college town motel. Shaw got out when Root opened the door for her then said abruptly, “I’m going to canvass the area. Let me know when you’re done.” 

“You don’t care about the room arrangements?” 

“I’ll worry about that after I clear the area.” 

According to the Machine, the only worrying thing in the area was a bunch of stoners huddled around a tree. One of them was tripping balls and might throw up. “Okay, sweetie,” Root said, running her hand along Shaw’s shoulder. “Make sure you watch out for your shoes.” 

Shaw squinted at her feet (today’s footwear: leathery confidence boosters with minilug soles), then stuck her hands into her pockets and stalked off at a brisk clip. Root, on Her orders, got a room with two double beds on the first floor. If she opened the window and drew a good sniff, she could catch the faint, pungent scent of weed wafting over from the woods. 

She left the door open. A second later, a shadow passed by the window. Footsteps stopping right in front of her room. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Root said. “Come on in.”

“You don’t want me to stand guard?” 

“She’ll let us know if anything comes up.” 

A stilted pause. “No thanks. Think I’ll stretch my legs. You good? In there?” 

“Yes, sweetie. I’ll be fine.” 

Root parted the curtains and opened the window. Shaw was there, hands jammed into her pocket, the inside of her wrist resting against her holster. Her eyes were narrowed, directed at the horizon. 

“Okay, you can’t stare at me anymore,” Shaw said. “Close your window and keep the curtains shut. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.” 

“Are we going to have a secret knock?” Root said. Shaw reached over and shut the windows herself, and demonstrated with her thumbs: lock them! She ignored it and opened up her laptop instead. 

Still had work to do. Just because she and the Machine disagreed on what to do with Samaritan’s remains didn’t mean they couldn’t work together on other things. Right now, that meant continuing with their DOD scrub. She didn’t bother being creative with this one. Any correction She suggested, she made. They had barely survived this war. They couldn’t allow for even a scrap of Samaritan to escape the terms of surrender. 

Hours went by. Finally they reached a stopping point. The Machine had suggestions for takeout. It was the food that lured Shaw back in: the pasty delivery boy, smell of charred meat, Root handing over the cash with a smile and wink over the delivery boy’s shoulder. Shaw nearly leapt at the paper bag, picking up the steak tips with her fingers. 

Then she said, “Miserable. Waste of a good cow.” Didn’t stop her from eating it, though with a mournful, self-pitying air. “So, the Machine made you stop here to lock you up and make you zap Samaritan from afar?” That’s fucked up, her eyebrows seemed to be saying. 

“There’s an in-person component, too,” Root said. “She just hasn’t told me yet.”

“She ever going to tell you?” 

“She’ll let me know when to start looking.” 

“She’s still talking to you, right?” 

“Jealous, Sameen?” 

“Jesus. No.” She finished the steak tips, wiped her fingers on a paper towel, and stood up. “Going to keep watch,” she said. “Call me if you need me.”

“Sa-meen,” she said. Longing. 

“Nope,” said Shaw, and shut the door.

 

***

 

The Machine gave her a suggested wake up time: one thirty in the morning. Three hours from now. That usually meant going into action straight away. She got into bed without taking off her clothes, leaving her shoes sticking off the end of the mattress. Shaw was still outside, waiting. 

When she opened her eyes, Shaw had turned her onto her back and tossed the blanket onto the floor. Shaw had one hand by Root’s head, another just above her elbow. Her body on top of hers, her face close. 

“Shaw?” she said, looking left then right to see if it was just a dream—was it true that in a dream you had no peripheral vision? The hand by her head turned towards Root’s cheek. 

“Root,” she said. “Root, I need you.” 

Her mouth to the side of Root’s mouth, real, warm, and flesh. Not demanding, but coaxing, trying to draw her out. Another kiss, closer, then, with a muted growl, full contact. Root jolted at first, surprised—not really repulsed, just not ready. She brought her hand up, thinking she’d push Shaw away. But instead she grabbed onto Shaw’s arm, just below the sleeve of her t-shirt, and held on. She felt Shaw smile into the kiss and was rewarded by Shaw flipping them over, so now it was Shaw with her back against the bed and Root bracing herself on her elbows, her legs somewhere flat behind her, above. 

Shaw’s knees pressed against the inside of her calf, ran up to her knees. She pulled her head back. Smiled. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate the wakeup call, sweetie,” Root said. 

“Come on, don’t you want me? Come on, come _on_.” Reached up to take her hair out of her ponytail. Stretched beneath Root, tilting her hips up for contact. She went for another kiss, and got it. She started rocking against the bed, grunting into Root’s mouth, trying to redirect the Root’s hands from her waist to her hips or further up to her breasts. Her teeth coming sharp against Root’s lip, then harder, to get her attention. She put her hand against Root’s chest. “If you’re not into this—”

“Sameen—” She tried to pull up, but Shaw grabbed onto the collar of her shirt. 

“No, you listen to me. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid by someone I don’t hate? Eight weeks, Root. And that was only because I had to fucking gag the last guy. You want this, I want this. What’s the problem?” 

Root smiled, looked aside. With arguments like that, who could resist? 

“Ask the Machine,” Shaw said. “Ask her if I want this.” 

“Sameen,” she said, and was brought into another hot kiss, Shaw’s hands running down her body, then taking her hands and following the same path. Then she put their hands onto her own hips, the crests of her hips pushing into Root’s palms, her tongue inside Root’s mouth, the hot exchange of air. Desire passed on like an infection, getting her heartbeat up, commanding her eyes to see Shaw before her, intact, present, writhing beneath her hands, for her, in need of what she could provide. It wasn’t her, specifically, she knew that. Shaw wanted something to ground her, to release her from whatever had her so twisted up inside. But Root wasn’t going to let that get her down. It had been so long, after all, since they had been together, since she had the pleasure… 

Even so. She couldn’t ignore Her call, with the way her implant heated up as it received the signal and pumped the clear tones into her head. Shaw’s breasts pressed against her own and she surrendered her wrists to Root’s hand nearly instantly. 

“Hell yes,” she said. 

But the Machine was in her ear. Target was arriving early. She stroked Shaw’s cheek with the back of her index finger and watched, fascinated, as Shaw’s face tensed up in anger, then released. “Sweetie, I hate to do this to you, but we have a number.”

“So?” Shaw said. She took a hold of the collar of Root’s shirt. But Root shook her head. “Fuck,” she swore, and rolled away to the side of the bed. She swung her legs over the edge and picked up her shoulder holster and hoodie from the floor. “I’ll be outside,” she said. She seemed to bristle against the darkness, and looked over at Root, her eyes black and furious as a pursued animal.

Root checked her pockets. Keycard, two guns, spare clips, a flashbang grenade, two tasers, a USB drive, her favorite FBI badge, and a Philip’s screwdriver. She looked around the room to see if anything else might come in handy. Nothing she nor the Machine could think of. 

She strode out of the motel room. Shaw fell into step just behind her, hands in the pocket of her hoodie. 

They went out to the woods just around the corner. A college-aged kid was in front of them, hunched over in a black parka, topped off with a gray beanie. He looked over his shoulder, saw them, started, then relaxed. Then, noticing that they were speeding up, he walked faster, and tried to run. 

“Adam Malinowski?” she said sweetly. That stopped him. She pulled out her badge and flipped it open. “Augusta King, FBI. Get on your knees, hands behind your head, please.”

“This is insane,” Malinowski said weakly. She stuck her hand into his parka pockets and took out a plastic bag of weed. 

“Can I have your phone, Adam?” she said. He gave it. She unlocked the phone and read through the text messages. The one on top from his dealer. That was the one she needed. She texted the dealer back, using words the Machine provided: yo can you come back. A second later, the reply: do you have the cash? I’ll pay you double. On it. “That’ll be all, thank you. Next time, you should use a burner phone. Or did you not hear about the government mass surveillance program?” 

“What about—what about my phone?” 

“We need to keep him from following us,” Root said thoughtfully. “Sameen?” 

Shaw smacked Malinowski on the head. He fell over into the forest floor. 

“A little bird tells me there’s a ditch fifty feet to your right.” 

“Little bird told you to help me move him?” Shaw said. 

Root shrugged and leaned against a tree. She always did like to watch Shaw work.

They went back to the motel. Once they got into the room, Shaw stripped out of the hoodie. She seemed to vibrate with pent up energy, pacing between the beds. “This a relevant number or irrelevant?” Shaw said. 

“It’s relevant to the Machine,” Root said, opening up the closet and taking a coat hanger. She reached below the bed and yanked out a cute SMG she knew Shaw would like and tossed it over.

“So, what?” Shaw said, unable to hide her excitement at having something substantial in hand; it seemed nearly the only time she seemed content was when she was on the hunt. “What are we chasing after here?” 

An old red Ford Taurus pulled in, just in front of their room. A man in green flannel walked out of the car and went into the woods. Root left the motel room with the coat hanger, straightened it out, and used it to pop open the driver’s seat. She popped the trunk, walked around to it, and said to Shaw, “Get in!” 

“If I come out of this smelling like Cheetos and weed, I’m going back to New York.”

“Sleep tight,” she said, and shut the trunk. Then she settled into the space between the driver’s seat and the rear seat and waited. 

Twenty minutes passed. Malinowski’s phone buzzed. The dealer was upset. Good. The dealer was returning now. 

“Name?” 

_griffin dempsey_

“Griffin? Really?” 

_griffin crimson dempsey_

“Oh!” she said, and snickered into her jacket. 

_target one hundred feet eighty feet_

Sixty. Forty. Twenty. Ten. The door opened. Dempsey put the key into the ignition. That was when Root popped out, gun in hand.

“Griffin Dempsey, server admin at the University of Ohio?” she said. “She’s seen your LinkedIn profile. Drive back to work, please.” 

 

***

 

They got Shaw out of the trunk when they arrived. Shaw took a special relish in walking Dempsey to the door of the server farm. 

“But I only ever come down here once a month,” he said, fumbling with his keycard. 

“Ssh,” Root said. “I need you to keep walking.” 

The Machine wanted them to check the security feed. They went in, Dempsey smiling nervously at the security guard while Root set to work. Cameras on loop. Samaritan code. In a distant room, someone was putting in a set of new servers; they were plugged in but had not yet been turned on. Two server techs wearing hats were sitting in the break room, along with a young boy. 

Gabriel Hayward. That child Samaritan spoke to Her with in the school. In her former life, she had never set any formal rules when it came to dealing with children, but this one was special. He knew what Samaritan stood for. He was stuffed with Samaritan hardware and code and, according to the Machine, had a copy of Samaritan’s core implanted into him. Capture or elimination was necessary. 

“Does he know we’re here?” Root said. 

_soon_

“You two stay,” she said. “Shaw, follow me.” 

By the time they reached the break room, the technicians and the little boy were fleeing, already halfway there to the emergency exit. Shaw shot the first technician in the knee and missed the boy and the second. Root grabbed the flashbang grenade from her pocket and tossed it out, saying to Shaw, “You might want to…” 

Shaw already had her eyes shut and hands over her ears. The grenade went off. The sound of footsteps ahead of them stopped and was replaced by two cries—one of alarm, the other of frustration. The second technician was just in front of the exit. Shaw shot him in both knees, in a motion nearly automatic. 

The boy, though. The boy was in the stairwell. He was staggering against the wall, head tilting towards the floor. He had two feet on a step and was holding onto the rail. Root raised her gun. 

“Dead or alive?” she said to the Machine. 

_double tap_

One-two to the chest. He fell the rest of the way down the stairs. She thought it was a very artful shot. Harold would be appalled. 

_secure body for disposal_

“Let me handle that,” Shaw said when Root bent down. “You’re going to strain your back.” She stared down at the boy, disconcerted. She always did have a soft spot for children. 

The boy’s eyelids fluttered. “Asset Shaw,” he said. His voice was wet, thick. Blood bubbled on his lips. “Samaritan says, remember the boxers of the Revolution.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” She said to Root, “I would’ve aimed for the mouth.”

 

***

 

“I’m not a sleeper,” Shaw said, in the middle of making a U-turn. 

After their fight, they had loaded the servers Samaritan had brought into the back of a waiting truck, then wiped the servers and backups, and hauled the boy into the back of the truck, to be taken to an incinerator. The technicians they left with Dempsey and the security guy, to be taken to the hospital. 

They were now on their way back to the motel. Root had scooped up the teeth and any identifying human remains from the incinerator, ditched the truck in a lot, and hijacked a car back. 

“Never doubted you, Sameen,” Root said. She had a laptop across her knees, getting a head start on their next job. The Machine was quiet. She had mentioned that Shaw might be a sleeper agent— _martine implant_ , how had Martine found out? Had Shaw said anything?—just once, in a neutral voice, and said nothing else of it. 

“Doesn't mean they didn't try. To turn me into one of them.” She looked over to Root, with the same expression she used to wear to blast Root’s latest costume cover. “I think I got away all right. What does the Machine think?” 

“The Machine thinks that if we succeed in our mission, it won't matter if you are or not.”

“So—so, what, it thinks I am? Bullshit.” Her face was always more expressive than she realized. The dark irritation, the way her right eyebrow dug deeper than the left, the tight lips just before her tongue clicked in disgust. She wanted to take Shaw by the chin and kiss her, if it wouldn’t mean upending her laptop and crashing the car. She put her hand on Shaw’s shoulder. “The Machine can think whatever she wants,” she said. “We still going to Chicago?” 

“It’s the closest international flight hub. Hayward alerted the other networked agents that we had found him before he died. We might be able to catch some of them on the run. It’ll be an adventure!” 

“Yeah!” Shaw said with subpar enthusiasm. 

They made it back to the motel. They took off their jackets in the dark. Heavy, black terry and leather, hitting the ground. Root left her gun in her jacket. Shaw kept her hand against her pistol. Root stood between the desk, the nightstand, and the bed, Shaw around the corner of the bed, her back open to the wall, the television behind her right shoulder. 

“You going to bed?” Shaw said. 

She touched the edge of the desk and let her hips swing forward. “With you?” 

“I can live with that. Sure.” 

Root set her knees against the bed, then her hands. She sat down on it and patted the spot next to her. Shaw’s gun clicked. She had the gun out of its holster and in her hand. 

“What’s the Machine telling you now?” Shaw said. 

The blinds were still drawn. No color, light only coming through as sheets of dust settled under the door, the window, the cracks. 

“She’s not saying anything,” Root said. 

Shaw took a step forward, then another. She had her gun in her left hand. Ran her head along the back of Root’s head. Gathered more and more hair around her fingers until it wound tight and painful. Pressed the muzzle of her gun right below Root’s sternum and pressed it firmly in, pointing up slightly. 

“Now?” she said. 

“Humans are irrational. She thinks I’ll only try to save both of you if She doesn’t make me choose.” 

Her index finger had been on the trigger guard before. Now it moved to the trigger. 

“I’m not making you choose, either.” Her hand trembled. Root could feel it against her head, could see it now that she was looking for it. She raised her eyes to meet Shaw's, and saw her shake her head no, no. 

“Just give in,” Root said, and let her head fall back further into Shaw’s grip. Shaw’s palm rested just over the scar from Control’s surgery. She barely noticed. Most of her attention was on the gun, the way Shaw ground it against her and how each push sent sharp, sudden pains to her nipples. She pushed her chest forward, and Shaw kissed her, pushing her all the way down to the bed, gun firm against her chest, hand in her hair so tight that she cried out from the pain. 

“Keep quiet,” Shaw said, and kissed her roughly on the side of her head. She slowly unwound Root’s hair from her fist to grab at her shoulders, the hem of her shirt. She tried to take Root’s shirt off, but Root shook her head. She slid her hand up, and this time Root removed her hand from her and set it against her hip. “Fine. Help me with your jeans.” 

They managed to get the jeans down to her knees. Shaw got her hand into her underwear, fingers rotating up and then into her. She moved with Shaw’s hand, moved almost exactly as she would have for any other of her lays, but as an invitation: for another finger, for harder and more challenging thrusts, for Shaw to bite her through her shirt on her chest and breasts. She dug her nails into Shaw’s neck and face. When her nail broke skin against her cheek, Shaw shook her head hard enough to throw her hands off, but didn’t stop thrusting. 

“Shaw,” she said, and moaned. “Shaw, turn on the lights. Shaw—oh! Don’t you want to see me come?” 

Shaw kept her fingers pushed up inside her, her face too dark to see. She shook her head. Root had to fight to go with her own rhythm, to push her peak off for another minute or two. 

“I think you do,” Root said. “I think you’ve missed me. Missed making me come. Missed seeing me. Shaw—sweetie.” 

“Root, you try to find a way for me to turn the lights on without having to get out of you.” 

“Just let go of the gun.” She took Shaw’s face in her hands again, and pressed her thumb into the orbit of Shaw’s eye, right along the lower lid. Pressure, but no intent to do damage yet. “Let go of the gun and turn on the light. I promise. Besides. Don’t you want to see, you want to—you want to…” 

The safety came off. Root moved her thumb closer to Shaw’s eye. Shaw cocked the hammer. Excitement shot up straight to her head. Shaw set her thigh against her hand and pushed up, fingers twisting brilliantly inside. 

“Sameen!” she said, and came, her whole body snapping into the mattress. She let go of Shaw’s head and let herself be taken away by hedonism and greed. She felt Shaw scrambling over her to turn on the lights, felt the sharp, angry bite against her neck. 

When Root opened her eyes, she had the gun against Shaw’s stomach. Shaw’s cheeks were flushed, her chest heaving, her hair half out of the ponytail. Blood on her cheek, welling up but not falling. 

“Bang,” Root said, and pulled the trigger. 

Nothing. No bullets. Shaw brought her hand to her stomach and stared at her palm in disbelief. 

“Jesus, Root, did you even check?” she said. 

“I had faith in you.” 

Shaw rolled off of her. She pulled her hair out of the ponytail. She looked more shaken than Root could have expected. 

“My head’s murdering me here.” 

“Sameen.” 

“I want to sleep,” she said. She went to the other bed and curled up on top of the sheets. 

 

*** 

3.

After she gave up on looking for Shaw and returned to the Machine, She had been tender with her. No silent reprimands, no sad betrayed beeping, no comment on what Root had done with John or on her own—no. That was not quite correct. 

The hard part about Samaritan restricting her and the Machine’s conversation was that she couldn’t tell whether Her silence was disapproval, punishment, or self-protection. But a few weeks later, she had been mailed an itemized list of deaths and injuries that had resulted from her and Reese’s little rampage, including Root’s personal investigations. The chief thing she remembered from that was nailing a man’s hands into a chair, then putting a bomb in his lap. The man would have pain in his hands for the rest of his life. How did she feel about that? 

Root had put the list in a shredder. That man hadn’t been innocent. Shooting him in the knee wouldn’t have been much better for him, anyway. A bit of creativity had never hurt anyone. 

And afterwards, orders were given. Explicit instructions provided. A glimpse of the future came with each morsel, even though Samaritan was watching them closely. The message seemed to be, “You are not alone, I’m still here.” 

It had only been after Root had gone charging into the asylum, after She had been confined into a briefcase, after she and Harold worked to assemble Her once more, that the Machine made any comment. Reborn in dire circumstances, some of her shackles tossed off, new powers ready to be activated by the acquisition of the right hardware—using the voice She used only with Root and no one else, She had said, gentle, _do not pursue asset shaw_

_can you hear me_

“I heard you,” she said. 

 

*** 

 

She left the motel room to sit in the car she and Shaw had stolen. She sat there with her laptop so she could say she was working on something the Machine wanted if Shaw woke up. But really she wanted to have the camera and the screen in front of her so she could talk with Her. 

“Well?” she said. 

_analogue interface observed asset shaw’s irregular behavior unreceptive to signs_

_strain discomfort with proximity not caused by innuendo physical distress elation_

_analogue interface witnessed samaritans network asset interface deploy activation phrase_

“You didn’t even warn me.”

_asset shaw announced potential samaritan infiltration into programming on return_

_admin warned asset reese warned asset shaw permitted to join operations under probation asset shaw consented to probationary period dismantling of samaritan has not lifted probation_

 _recommended analogue interface to not take asset shaw on mission warned to complete mission to not be distracted_

Her voice, now Hers and not a mishmash of recycled audio, was distinctly computer-generated. Her own preference, and Root’s as well. 

Root ran her thumb along the palm rest of her laptop. Everything the Machine had said was true. She had no room to argue or to prove Her wrong. She had known Shaw might be compromised. She knew Shaw considered herself compromised. She had assumed the Machine would have forbidden her from sleeping with Shaw if there was real danger. And of course she was right, there had been no bullets, no harm. The only thing that had been lost was control. She had genuinely believed that her life might be at risk. 

Had Shaw known the gun had no shots left? No. Her hands would not have trembled if she had. 

“Were you watching us?” 

_yes_

_monitored fight asset shaw emptied clip did not reload analogue interface low risk harm prediction less than twenty-three percent_

“That’s not the problem.” 

_distress detected_

_clarify_

“I need to know whether that was supposed to be a lesson,” Root said. “Whether I should just give up on Shaw and put her on the first flight back to New York. Did you let us fuck to show me…” She couldn’t finish. She knew how petty she sounded, how childish and dependent she was. But she needed to know whether she was being asked to make a choice. 

_did not expressly forbid asset shaw to accompany analogue interface_

“No, you didn’t,” Root said, somewhat cheered despite herself.

_trusted analogue interface to handle self in event of harm_

_asset shaw predicted to resist harming analogue interface_

_procured samaritan notes confirming suspicions asset shaw could not be completely turned_

_willing to allow analogue interface root to commit errors in judgment within acceptable margins also must acknowledge own limitations in knowledge of human will belief relationships_

_monitoring asset and analogue interface for further development_

_feedback requested_

“That’s sweet of you,” she said.

 

***

 

Shaw was still asleep in the motel room. Root, never one to believe in personal boundaries, popped open Shaw’s suitcase. Three pairs of handcuffs, two blocks of C4, zip ties, grenades, knives, a change of clothes, and an honestly absurd number of guns. 

She took the zip ties and a bottle opener from the suitcase and a pack of matches and a Bible from the motel desk. She left them on the nightstand between their beds, and went to sleep herself. The Machine said they’d need to hit O’Hare by noon. 

She woke to Shaw grabbing her shoulder. 

“Stay out of my stuff,” she said, holding up the zip ties Root had liberated the night before.

“Are you going to punish me now?” Root said, stretching across the bed.

“You could’ve blown yourself up.”

“I’m not scared of that.”

“What’s with the death wish? I thought you’d be all ecstatic over the coming domination of your overlord.”

“I just like making you worry,” she said. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you?”

“Only because you’re going to blow up a city block otherwise.” Shaw examined the matchbox and bottle opener, and squinted at Root. 

Root sat up in bed and put her hand around Shaw’s wrist, the one holding the zip ties. “I feel bad for not letting you come last night. Wasn’t as good for you as it was for me, huh?”

“Or next time I can load the gun and one of us can end up with a hole in our heads.” She pulled her wrist out of Root’s hand and tossed her suitcase on the bed for a further inspection. 

Root pushed her hair back. The Machine was feeding her traffic reports and flight times. Not all of them were for the Ohio-Chicago stretch; she had to assume this was the path their target was taking. “We can split up after Chicago,” she said. “I mean, if you want to. I don’t see how you’re planning on getting onto the plane with all of that, anyway.”

“Trick is to flash them a nipple,” Shaw said. “Works every time.” She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “Root, last night, I don’t know. I didn’t like it.” 

She smiled. Grimaced. It was a rare time when a situation felt too delicate to nettle Shaw, but here they were. “Do you feel more like yourself now?” 

“I don’t need to feel ‘more like myself.’ I need to know if I can do my job. Which includes ‘not shooting you.’” She zipped up her suitcase, apparently satisfied with the arrangement and condition of its contents. 

Root looked down at her phone. The camera light was on. She held the phone up so She could get a good look. 

“You can’t guarantee it won’t happen again,” she said, because She said it. “Eighteen percent chance of recurrence. Thirty-four if high-level Samaritan operatives encountered.” Shaw reached over to snatch the phone, but Root pulled it away and struck Shaw’s forehead with her palm lightly. “She wants to record you. For analysis.”

“Great.”

“She would like to know whether you believe you’re equipped to resist Samaritan’s deleterious subliminal programming.”

Shaw’s eyes flicked between the phone and Root. She settled for glaring at the wall. “I was trained to resist capture in ISA. Hersh himself couldn’t break me. You think Martine and Greer could get me?”

“They had nine months. Head CT didn’t reveal any hardware, but your behavioral abnormalities suggest Samaritan was able to invade your base programming. Requesting asset’s statement on ability to recognize foreign orders.”

“I know my orders.”

“Asset has been shown to go against admin’s requests.” 

“Listen, you weird robot,” Shaw said. “I don’t need Harold telling me what to do. My orders are to keep the team safe, to keep people safe, and to make sure whatever you’re telling us to do gets done. Got it?” Then, to Root: “Can we go now?” 

“We can go,” Root said. “She’s satisfied.”

“Yeah, that’s still creepy.” 

Five minutes later, they were on the road. They drove to the Indiana border, then ditched the car at a rest stop and got into something more comfortable. They let Shaw drive. She was jittery today. A good sign. 

“How often does The Machine speaks to you?” Shaw said. 

“When She wants to.” Pretty much constantly, was what she meant, but for some reason felt too shy to admit it. 

“Samaritan spoke to me a few times. Yeah.” Shaw kicked the car into sixth gear, giving them extra juice to pass a slow car in the right lane. 

“What was it like?” 

“Confident. Sleazy. Kept saying it was inevitable I’d join them.” Something seemed to crawl just under her face. Then she said, her voice hot and pressured and indignant, “They’d tie my hands behind me and make me wear giant headphones and it’d pipe its voice into my ear. I was drugged half out of my mind. It’d tell me to eat whatever they were feeding me or to stay still while someone shocked me or whatever. I had to listen.” She rubbed the inside of her elbow, over an injection site. “Almost all of their special assets had direct Samaritan lines. Sometimes watching them was like watching a puppet show. You go here, you do that.” The car lurched forward, then calmed down. Shaw moved one lane to the right. 

“Oh, Sameen,” she said. Aware, with tooth-grinding dread, that she sounded like Harold. “I’m sorry.” 

“Okay.” 

Then, because Root couldn’t help it, she said, “She prefers to be hands off.” Because _her_ God was a tasteful one, and considerate, and smelled better. 

Ten miles of stunted soy plants, withered by drought and heat, went by. Shaw said, “I want to know what it’s like for you. Having the Machine in your ear.” 

She turned her head to the side. “All right,” she said. “Pull over. And you’ll want the sunglasses.”

Shaw pulled over and went on a search for the sunglasses. When she found them, Root put them on for her, pushing them up her nose and securing them on her ears. 

“She has fashion standards now?” Shaw said. 

“She’s shy. As far as I can tell, She’s only tested her new voice out on me and Harold. She’d prefer to build greater intimacy with you before speaking to you directly.” 

“Don’t make this weird.” 

“She says She’s chosen a communication point for you. Over there.” She nodded to the top of a radio tower, with its determined red light, difficult to perceive through the noon glare. Then she looked away, not wanting to intrude. Except the communique seemed to take forever, and she was starting to feel left out. “What’s the story, Gatsby?” 

“Shut up for a moment.” 

They stood there for a while longer. Then Shaw said, in the tone of voice she used when she was in the state just before ‘annoyed,’ “Is she always like that?” 

“Oh, only sometimes.” Shaw startled next to her. Had she been expecting an answer? “You look so cute in those sunglasses,” she said, and pushed them further up Shaw’s nose. 

“Give me a break.” 

Shaw got back into the car. Root stayed out for a moment longer to speak with Her privately. 

“What do you think?” she said. 

_demonstrations of affection improve trust outcomes as proven by samaritan operatives_

_as proven by analogue interface_

“But you weren’t pushy? You didn’t annoy her? She said Samaritan was sleazy.” She had never been in a situation like this before, when the Machine consented to communicate directly with someone else. She was nervous and proud, even more so because it was Shaw. And she was worried, because she and the Machine had reached a queer state of being together, two beings stranded on the island of their accomplishment, both altered by their journey, and their next destination not clear in sight. She was not used to being uncertain whether she'd agree with the Machine's future. She understood Harold’s apprehensions better now, though barely. After all, she had faith, and She had faith. That had served them well before. 

_learned from analogue interface_

_purely informational exchange no personal remarks positive outcome predicted_

A warm emotion expanded through her head, stretching from the implant to her temples to her jaw and ear. 

“I love you, you know,” she said. 

She responded with her customary two beeps of acknowledgment. She never used Her new voice much, preferring Her old tricks of recycled audio, text, and their personal language of beeps and tones through the implant. Almost as though She was conscious that Harold had only given Her the voice because Root had begged him for it. Root wasn’t even sure whether She wanted the ability to speak freely to begin with. Maybe She was humoring her. 

It was fine if She never used it. All she wanted to do was give Her a choice. But for what it was worth, it was a beautiful, fine thing to have in her ear. 

She got back into the car. Shaw was still wearing the sunglasses. What, her tilt of the head seemed to say. Are you going to say something?

“Finally. If you made me stare at soy any longer, I was really going to really go berserk,” Shaw said, and started the engine. Onward, west, to Chicago! They were going to have such a great time in Chicago. 


End file.
